Dance Me to the End of Love Ch. 04

Ch. 04

She Smiled Sweetly

Around a year after I moved into the apartment, from some time in the summer well into the fall, Callie dated a guy who went by the name of Trip, with whom she actually seemed smitten (rather un-Calliope, I thought). A tall, good-looking, self-confident, preppy type (very un-Calliope), he reminded me of the guys you and I derided in college. I found that I missed hanging out with her, and I didn't particularly like him.

Actually, I hated him, and thought (and desperately wanted to tell her) that she was just a fetish object to him.

{SCENE: Clinking glasses with his buddies in one of those downtown frat-boy bars, Trip says "Yeah, I'm doing this little artsy chick now. Check that off my bucket list." Cheers and grunts ensue.}

At least that's how I imagined it...

One chilly, blustery Sunday afternoon, as Callie walked past one of her favorite dive-bar haunts, she glanced inside and saw Trip sitting at the bar looking (even for him) uncharacteristically louche. While he was looking toward the back of the bar, she stepped inside, tiptoed up to him and whispered in his ear, something like:

Callie: "Fancy meetin' you here, baby!"

Trip: "Huh? Whoa, um, hey!"

Callie: "Bah me a drink, sailor?"

Trip: "Uhhh..."

Terse, female voice from behind Callie: "Trip—Who. Is. This?" And, as Callie turned toward her, "Wait, are you the...?"

Trip: "I— uhh..."

Calliope (storming out of the bar): "Fuck off, Trip! And you too, Little Miss Wall Street be-itch! Matter of fact, fuck all y'all!"

[Sound of door slamming.]

That's pretty much how I imagined it went down (largely confirmed by Calliope herself, though not until months later).

When Callie arrived home that evening, she marched straight past me, without a look or a greeting, into her room. After a minute or two, I heard soft music emanating from within, and I went to her door and knocked lightly. She didn't answer, but the music got louder, and I recognized the sound of an old John Cale record. I stood there for what felt like hours, my hand on her door, just listening as she played the same song over and over and over...

On the few occasions that I saw Callie during the following weeks, she didn't outwardly act upset about Trip ditching her, but at this point I had known her long enough to sense that—when she wasn't cloistered in her room—she seemed tired, distant, and sad (totally un-Calliope).

Never Say Never

One very cold Friday night in early winter, as I dozed on the couch, not really watching the news, trying to write, I was jolted awake by a rush of cold air (we lived on the ground floor, a few feet from the building entrance). That, and the sound of the door slamming, told me that Callie had just come in. She had been out with some colleagues blowing off steam after a long week of work. I thought she seemed a bit tipsy, but also, for the first time in weeks, happy. I told her it was nice to see her smile again (stopping just short of mentioning how much I had despised Trip). With a near-theatrically fake sigh, she said,

"Yeah, sorry I been a bit of a crah-baby lately."

"Not the word I would've used."

"Ah know. That's why Ah said it."

"But really..."

"Ah mean, the hell with that pink-plaid-Bros-shirt-Brooks-wearin' SOB. Ah can do waaay better.

"Mmmm."

"And y'know what's worse'n him bein' a raaat?"

"Uh, no?"

"It was the most boring-est fuckin' I ever got!"

Clearly, I made some kind of face when she said this, because the corners of her mouth twitched. (I'm quite sure my face flushed, as that calculus [Callie + fucking = x] passed through my mind.) And while I wasn't completely surprised by this outburst—you never really knew what was going to come out of her mouth—it occurred to me that:

1. She actually wasn't as tipsy as I'd thought. [And maybe not at all.]

2. She had never said anything to me about her sex life, although I assumed that she had one. [Was this a remnant of Southern gentility embedded in her DNA?]

3. She barely ever spoke about the Trip relationship, even when it was in full swing. [She would stay at Trip's--I don't think they ever slept at her place--for a day or two, then come home and hide in her room all Saturday, insisting that she was busy, if I knocked to offer her a cup of tea or a beer. On Sunday, she'd be up before sunrise, and--unless I had a guest, which was virtually never--knock twice, then tiptoe in, announce brightly "Hey you, gotcha cup of java!" and deposit it on my makeshift nightstand.]

Kicking off her boots, and tossing her coat and bag on the rickety chair in the corner, she said "I'm-a go take off these work clothes—wanna watch a flick or somethin'?" I nodded and rose to clear my stuff off the couch. She left the room, reappearing a few minutes later, her hair partially down, and uncharacteristically tousled, wearing the white shirt I had inadvertently left in the bathroom after taking it off a couple of hours earlier, and (pretty obviously) nothing else.

<<I truly enjoyed our friendship, and had never entertained any fantasies about Callie (well, except for one very explicit dream, about a week after I moved in). However, the fact that she was quite pretty (and, I had to admit, sexy) was absolutely not lost on me.>>

The bright white shirt, contrasting with Calliope's slightly olive skin, made her look radiant. I noticed that she had not bothered with the first 3 or 4 buttons of my shirt; this was not an accident, but an undeniably deliberate, albeit elegant, exhibition. As she moved, my shirt flapped gently open and closed, exposing more than just her tattoo. Her breasts were small, but looked succulent, and were crowned with large, conical, burnt umber-colored areolae and nipples. The latter were, either due to the chill in the air, or the increasing heat in the room (or both), prominently, clearly erect. Surprise (or, more likely, an amalgam of shock and lust) must have registered on my face, and as she went to grab a bottle of wine, she chirped, "Now, don't y'all think this shirt looks better on me?"

I did.

Calliope came back bearing wine, a corkscrew, and two glasses, and I saw that she had now undone all but the last button of my shirt. I could swear I actually felt heat radiating from her skin, and as she set the glasses down on the small side table, my shirt slipped off her left shoulder. Looking down at her own now-fully-exposed breast, a little "Hmmm" escaped her lips. Looking up, her eyes narrowed, and she fixed a lascivious gaze on me. Her hips began to sway gently, back-and-forth, as she worked the corkscrew (the type used by waiters in fancy restaurants, of course), and slowly extracted the cork. With her left hand just keeping my shirt in place, she bent and poured two glasses of wine. Raising her glass, she toasted, "À des plaisirs encore inconnus!" We clinked, and each took a sip, then she replaced her glass on the table, along with the bottle and corkscrew.

She began to rotate slowly on the spot, and I saw my shirt slip off her right shoulder, gathering just below the point at which her back curved in gracefully to her waist. All that was left covered were her hips, which flared outward, before resolving to her rather toned legs. As she turned to face me once again, she winked, holding my shirt with only the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, her left arm covering her breasts.

Slowly turning again, she let my shirt fall gently to the floor, leaned forward, and made a little burlesque presentation of her soft, exquisitely rounded butt. I was a little surprised to see that Calliope had some dangerous curves and—there's no other way to put it—serious booty, and I blurted out "Oh yeah!" [OK, I wasn't completely surprised—she did occasionally dance around the apartment wearing only a towel, but...] She gave her booty another little shake, and kept turning.

When Calliope spun around for the last time, she stopped and locked eyes with me again. Hips still swaying, she glanced downward, guiding my eyes to follow as she gradually withdrew her left arm, uncovering one breast at a time, fingertips trailing across her stiff, dark nipples. Simultaneously, her right hand began to glide upward, over the little cushion of her belly, revealing a remarkably symmetrical delta of jet-black hair. As my eyes widened, she quipped, "Girl's gotta keep things neat, y'know!" She closed her eyes, her hips continuing to move, and used both hands to caress her own body—breasts, neck, belly, face, nipples, thighs... Every now and then a finger or two traced their way through her dense bush (which reminded me of a sign advertising a roadside attraction, only this sign pointed me to the mystery below). Suddenly self-conscious, I realized that I had started vigorously massaging myself, pretty much in rhythm with Calliope's danse érotique.

When I couldn't take another second of this show, I reached out for her. As my hands connected with Calliope's waist, I heard a squeak, and felt her wriggle a little as I pulled her toward me.

"No way! Don't tell me you're ticklish!?!"

"Mmmm. Let's just say, mah body is rather, sensitive. You may find a few, uh, spots, uh, unusually, mmm, responsive!"

While she was saying this, I had started lavishing kisses on her neck, and down her body. At some point she made another little squeak, and grabbed my head as my lips, tongue, and fingers explored. And as I began to linger more frequently on spots I discovered to be especially "sensitive," her breath became faster and deeper. I pulled away for a split-second, and heard her intone, "Ohhh." My hands found their way to her breasts, gently encircling and cupping them, and as I traced the margins of her areolae ever so lightly, her entire body gave a little shiver. Then, with the smooth skin of my open palms just barely making contact with the diamond-hard tips of her nipples, I began to move my hands in delicate concentric circles. She gasped, and after a minute, cried out, "Fuck, oh fuck, ohhh!" Her body stiffened and shook, then she let out a low, rasping sigh.

I stood up and caught her, guiding her gently onto my lap, facing away from me. With one arm around her for balance, I kissed her neck, while the other hand slid over her belly, through her bush, my fingertips almost imperceptibly grazing the softness below. Hearing her sharp intake of breath, I repeated that delicate touch a few more times, turning it into a gentle rhythmic caress. Picking up speed, I strummed my fingers over her entire mound, until I felt the distinct sensation of something dripping onto my cheap warmup pants.

As another great shiver ran up and down her entire body, she whispered hoarsely,

"Y'all don't give a girl a break, do you?" and then, a minute later, and a bit louder, "Not. Yet."

Pausing, I said "Sorry, should I stop?"

"What the fuck do you think? Gotta go ask the Magic 8-Ball, or somethin'?"

"My sources tell me 'NO'."

We both giggled, and with that, she pushed my arms away, and hopped up off my lap. Turning and climbing back onto the couch, she straddled me and kissed me for the first time(!). Very hard. I felt an electric shock coursing through my lips, directly into my brain. And other parts of my body. Very fast.

Still kissing me wildly, Calliope clawed at my tight t-shirt, finally succeeding in pulling it over my head; I helped get it the rest of the way off, as she started bouncing up and down on my lap. Little grunts issued from her mouth every time she made contact with the bulge, still hidden under the flimsy material, projecting straight up from my loins. Pressing me into the back cushions of the couch, her hands and virtually all of her weight on my chest, she used my body to pleasure herself. As I watched her sweet little boobs shaking, her expressions changing to match what she felt with every movement, my erection rapidly grew to its fullest, and a sleazy, wet spot started to appear on my pants. An overwhelming sensation quickly mounted throughout my body, and I knew, in an instant, that if she rubbed against me one more time, I would explode.

As Calliope rose up again, I rose with her, caught her pliant butt with both hands, and tossed her, laughing, back down on the couch, legs in the air. But it was already too late. Simultaneously making a grab for my pants, she caught one of the pockets with a finger, and managed to yank them crookedly down a little. Glimpsing the exposed inch or so of my member, as it spasmed uncontrollably, she made a breathy, whistling sound, and growled, "Hell fuckin' yeah!"

My knees shook as I pulled my pants back up, helpless to hide the wet, sticky mess—which had now quadrupled in size—spreading over the front of my pants. Sheepishly, I mumbled words of embarrassment, apology, excuse, "Cal, I— Sorry, I don't know—I wasn't—what just happened... I mean—"

She cut me off, saying, "Oh, hush up, boy. Y'all know you wanted it just as much as Ah did. 'Sides, Ah gotta give ya credit for—Ah mean, y'all weren't doin' half bad there, 'course until—y'know..."

With a positively devilish little cackle, she got up and sashayed off toward the kitchen; my eyes followed her jiggling butt as she went. At the door, she turned and blew me a kiss, then disappeared into her room.

Lying in bed that night, my mind raced with real and fantasized images of Calliope, and I heard my own voice saying aloud, "Well, that happened—what now?" as I drifted off to sleep.

For weeks after that encounter, life was totally, mundanely, normal. I got up, went to work, and came home, as usual. Callie got up, went to work, and came home, as usual. She and I had coffee together, chatted, watched TV, laughed, and went about our days, as usual. It was as if nothing had happened.